Killed by a blue sky, not beneath it

We are not alone.

I: bleeding finger nails. Contemplating. Desperately holding onto a glass of heated plum wine. Licking my lips. Staring straight forward, only slightly above her head. Focusing on the back of a book. Our Mutual friend, Charles Dickens. An old Brooks Brothers shirt and stay ups. Gorgeous hair.

She: Perfectly polished and french manicured nails. Running her index finger slowly round and round the edge of a high ball cocktail glass, filled to the brim with gin and ice. Fixating her eyes on the table. Tapping her left foot against the carpet. Dior, crisp white dress and pearls. Red hair.

We: Sit across from each other. Library setting. Dimmed lights. Exhaling Benson & Hedge smoke carefully. Not talking. Challenging each other.

No mother, I do not go to school. I do not eat. I do not sleep. I take a lot of pills. There are only two bottles of wine left in the once packed wine cellar. Yes, I drank it all.

Hours pass, not a word is spoken. Then she takes a deep breath, like she tries to push air down to her uterus, a large sip of gin and half a smile. I force myself to look at her (she's beautiful, I hate how perfect her face is) but I cant summon the strength to smile back. Then she slowly separates the two thick lines of Esteé Lauder that is her lips. When she leans over the table I can almost smell the lipstick (old age, or maybe even death)

-Did you know Louis?

-Your brother? Uncle Louis? No, I never met him. I thought he died

-Well, he did. Yesterday.

-Oh

She told me he died seven years a go. I didnt bother to ask her why she lied, nor did she explain it further. We simply opened another bottle, and let the silence consume us. Ignorance is bliss.